


looking for some good in another's wrists

by problematiquefave



Series: AUgust 2020 [3]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Canonical Character Death, F/F, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:41:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25697467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/problematiquefave/pseuds/problematiquefave
Summary: The left wrist holds your soulmate's first words to you. Your right wrist holds their last.On the Ark, Clarke could never have imagined what hers would mean.
Relationships: Clarke Griffin/Lexa
Series: AUgust 2020 [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1859875
Comments: 23
Kudos: 191
Collections: AUgust 2020





	looking for some good in another's wrists

Clarke’s hand falls limp, the piece of charcoal still clasped between her fingers as she observes the drawing in front of her. A small sigh escapes her, her eyelids sliding shut. She imagines the sounds of birds – the recorded chirping of old documentaries ringing in her eyes; she imagines the wind on her face, like the breeze from an air vent but without the faint scent of metal. She imagines the stars at night, pinpricks of light above her head with the grass at her back. Her eyes flutter open. Just her imagination; if she looked up, she would only see the stark metal of her cell.

Letting the charcoal roll out of her grasp, she draws her knees up to her chest. She pulls her arms in, spotting the amaranth colored letters on the inside of her left wrist – her soulmate mark. One of them, at least; the first words her soulmate will ever say to her.

_“You’re the one who burned 300 of my warriors alive.”_

It makes absolutely no sense.

They said everyone used to have soulmate marks – right up until only a fraction of mankind remained, orbiting the planet it once called home until it was safe to return. They said the algorithms of fate hadn’t been prepared for the destruction humanity could bring upon itself. They said, as her generation was being born, those algorithms began to catch up. The percentage of children born with soulmate marks had been rising since around the time of her birth. She was one of the lucky ones, they said.

The words hadn’t always been there. Small dots appear on each wrist shortly after birth; as the years pass, those dots begin to spread like ink in water until they finally form words. The left wrist bears the first words; the right wrist bears the last ones. Sometimes they were simple. A hello, a good morning, an apology for bumping into you. But hers… The only conclusion she’d ever been able to draw was that they were a quote, stolen from some archived book or film and said with a mocking laugh. Whoever said it would ask how violent their ancestors were and she’d say something witty in return. She hoped the connection would be easy, that the color of the words didn’t reflect the tone. Sometimes it did, sometimes it represented something else. The reddish hue didn’t bode well if it was the tone.

Her eyes flick from the left wrist to the right wrist. Her father’s watch covers the gold letters. If the color is the tone, then it’s a better one at least, but how tragic it is. Last words always are. She doesn’t need to see them to repeat them. She has both memorized – knows them better than her own name.

_“Life is about more than just surviving.”_

She unfurls herself and picks up the charcoal. Shooing away the melancholy that her wrists bring, she sets herself back to work on her drawing. Art keeps her sane and she’ll need her mind when she finally meets her soulmate.

Lights flood her cell as the buzz of the door is followed by the clank of locks opening. Her head shoots up, lips pursing at the guards who enter. She’s already pushing herself up when they command her to face the wall. At this point, she’s used to only being identified by her prisoner number. She’ll have her name once her trial sets her free.

But this isn’t the inspection she’s come to expect. The coldness of the guards is unnerving, their demands making little sense. She’s not eighteen – the laws protect her for another month yet the only explanation for this is if they were going to float her. Jaha wouldn’t do it, would he? They weren’t so low on air, were they?

No, but they were low on hope.

The ground Clarke had been dreaming of – that was her destination.

Curled up on her bedroll, unable to sleep with the ache in her spine and the soft snores of her fellow delinquents, she wraps her hand around her left wrist and _realizes_.

Her soulmate’s first words… They aren’t a joke. They aren’t a quote from an old piece of media that she hadn’t found during her many attempts at scouring the archives. There are real warriors here, people with swords, bows, and horses. There are grounders; the increase in soulmate marks was because _they’re on the ground_.

In the dark, she can’t see the words, but she’s spent enough of her life absentmindedly staring at them that she can picture the sight. Neither her nor the delinquents have killed three hundred warriors, but conflict looms like a shadow in an old film. It might happen. The chance is far greater than zero. But what does that mean for her? For her soulmate? For her people? What sort of relationship starts on opposite sides of a war?

If there’s a small hope Clarke carries with her as she makes her way through the grounder camp – through the sharp glares, the silent threats – it’s that she’ll live. The marks on her wrists prove it. She wouldn’t have marks if she never meets her soulmate; it’s why so many before her on the ark had bare wrists. The Commander’s guard can threaten her all he wants. In the end, he won’t slit her throat.

Ducking into the tent, green eyes adjust to the dim lighting. The Commander is the first and only person she notices. The woman at her side with a dagger-like gaze barely registers. The Commander reclining on a throne of twisted wood and metal, decked from neck to toe in armor, warpaint smeared across her face, framed by a wall of faded red cloth, and twisting a knife in her hands.

_She is not afraid_.

_She will live._

The Commander doesn’t glance at her. Her eyes focus on the dull glint of the knife’s edge. Clarke steels herself as her lips part but nothing prepares her to hear _those words_ in the Commander’s flat pitch.

“You are the one who burned 300 of my warriors alive.”

A gasp catches in the back of Clarke’s throat. _Her soulmate_. The Commander is—

If she were to analyze the situation, the evidence – she could’ve predicted it before she stepped into the tent. But as she prepared to face the leader of an army who wanted to rip her people to shreds, she hadn’t considered the words on her arm as anything more than a guarantee of her safety.

She doesn’t have time to analyze the situation though. Swallowing past the lump in her throat, chasing away the rush of confused feelings and thoughts, she refocuses on the task at hand. Who knows what these people think of soulmate marks if they can even read them?

“You’re the one who sent them there to kill us,” she says, staring into the eyes of the Commander. A small part of her searches for recognition. The Commander stares back at her, expression unreadable to Clarke. She tilts her head to the side and brings the point of her knife down on the throne’s arm.

As she twists the knife, the Commander asks, “Do you have an answer for me, Clarke of the sky people?”

She does. And it has nothing to do with fate.

She doesn’t broach the subject. Not during their first meeting, when she makes her offer. Not when Lexa tells her that they will have peace when Finn dies. She doesn’t use it to bargain for his life, even though the plea rests on her tongue-tip. _I’m your soulmate; spare him for me_. When Lexa tells her that love is weakness, she decides she won’t mention it. If Lexa knows, her disinterest in pursuing it is apparent. Clarke concentrates on the mission – get into Mount Weather, get their people out. It becomes easy to forget about fate when lives hang in the balance.

“You sent for me?” Clarke asks, resting her hand on Lexa’s desk. Her voice is tired. The mission has worn her ragged and the hardest part is yet to come.

“Yes,” Lexa says. “Octavia has nothing to fear from me.” She blinks, momentarily surprised as Lexa looks away from her. “I do trust you, Clarke.”

Clarke takes a step towards her. “I know how hard that is for you.” She doesn’t envy Lexa’s position, although she fears she’s stepped into a similar role. Lexa has suffered it longer, though. She has killed more and lost more, and she’s had to resort to cutting herself off from feelings that made her human simply to survive.

Lexa looks back up. “You think our ways are harsh”— _she does_ —“but it’s how we survive.”

A snapshot of her right wrist flashes in front of her mind’s eye.

“Maybe life should be about more than just surviving.” The words are sand in her mouth, but she believes them. They have to be said. She just hopes that Lexa isn’t about to say them back to her – even if she’s put it on the back burner, she’s not ready to lose her soulmate. Breaking eye contact, she stares at the desk – at the rolled up pieces of paper, the scattered writing instruments. “Don’t we deserve better than that?” she whispers.

There’s a pregnant pause. Clarke’s stomach turns, fearing she’s said the words on Lexa’s right wrist as the silence stretches.

Lexa catches her off guard. “Maybe we do.”

A hand reaches for her, cupping the side of her face as Lexa leans in; her lips are warm and plush against Clarke’s. A sugar sweet adrenaline crashes through her veins. When Lexa pulls back a fraction of an inch, Clarke follows. All she can think of is wanting more as she places a hand on her waist. But there’s more than heat to their kiss – sorrow, grief, and a forbidden quality linger in the back of her mouth. She’s dreamed so long of this, assured herself everything would be perfect with her and her soulmate, but she had never factored the cruelty of reality.

Jerking away from the kiss, she attempts to blink away the haze. “I’m sorry. I’m—” She meets Lexa’s confused expression. “It’s not right. I’m not… ready. Not yet.”

Lexa is silent. She gives a small, half-hearted and half-confused nod. Did she too dream of the moment being different? Being better?

Before she can ask, the camp outside starts to roar. Someone shouts for _Heda_ in their native tongue. Clarke and Lexa rush from the tent in time to see Bellamy’s flare.

There are many things Clarke notices as they consummate the tension and desire that’s colored every shared moment since their meeting. The freckles on Lexa’s shoulder, the dimples in her back, the scar on the inside of her thigh; most striking of all is the ink on her skin. It’s on her arms, on her back, and yes – on her wrists. Her soulmate marks are the same colors as Clarke’s, amaranth on her left wrist and gold on her right one. In the moment, the colors are all she notices. Afterwards, lying contented in the sun’s rays, she can read them.

_“You’re the one who sent them there to kill us_.”

_“May we meet again_.”

With trembling fingers, she touches the gold letters.

“I thought it strange they were in English,” she says. “Every warrior, every spy… I waited for them to speak. I wondered if it was a mistake; if”—she pauses, blinking, eyes focused on her wrist—“I had missed them because they were in the common tongue.” She meets Clarke’s gaze. “I didn’t expect you.”

Clarke’s lips twitch into a smile. “I though it was a quote from a book,” she confesses. “There were so many things I didn’t expect.”

Reaching up with her other hand, Lexa brushes her thumb across Clarke’s cheek. Her eyes twinkle in the sunlight; it bathes her face in a golden hue. “When we owe nothing to our people, we will find out what else fate wished for us.”

She nods against the pillow. “We will.”

_It’s a promise_.

_It’s a broken promise_.

The gunshot still echoing in her ears, hands black with Lexa’s blood, she begs every deity she heard of in history lessons for this not to be the end. But with tears in her eyes, black blood on her lips, Lexa says her last words.

“You were right, Clarke.” Her voice shakes with the effort. All she wants is for Lexa to conserve her energy. To live. “Life is about more than just surviving.”

She shakes her head, letting out a sound that’s a mix of ‘oh’ and ‘no’. She strokes Lexa’s hair as her soulmate closes her eyes, sucking in a pained gasp. The lump in her throat chokes her. The words tie her tongue. She opens her mouth and closes it – once, twice, and finally she speaks in a cracking voice. “In peace may you leave the shore. In love may you find the next.” She sniffles, fighting fruitlessly against the tears. Her voice is barely audible as she continues. “Safe passage on your travels… Until our final journey on the ground. _May we meet again_.”

Lexa’s lip trembles, her gaze unfocused as Clarke leans in for one last kiss. The feeling is different from the first time or earlier that day. The magic is changed. And when Lexa finally stills, it’s gone altogether.

**Author's Note:**

> i'll see myself out.
> 
> comments and kudos are always appreciated.
> 
> [my tumblr.](https://problematiquefics.tumblr.com/)


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